Why do we love the bad boys?
You know the ones.
The ones that smell of putrid sweat.
The ones that lie.
The ones that make us cry.
Like why ?
I think the only person to answer my query through poetry is another poet. So let’s just ask Bukowski:
“I don’t like the clean shaven boy with the necktie and the good job. I like desperate men. Men with broken teeth and broken minds and broken ways. They interest me. They are full of surprises and explosions.”
Pretty much on point! Thank you Bukowski…